Some Things Can Wait
by Lumeilleur
Summary: Gilbert likes his ties, Quidditch, and his memories with late Uncle Fritz; Roderich loves his music. Platonic/Romantic PruAus. Oneshot. Fic for Aph Fanfic Network prompt event, "Pottertalia". AU.
The two boys were sitting on the empty bleachers of the Quidditch field. It was a bright, beautiful day, and it would've been perfect for a match.

"What a awesome day, what a pity," Gilbert sighed as he redid his tie for the seventh time that morning. Gilbert cared a lot about his tie.

Roderich hummed in noncommittally as he reviewed his music scores. Roderich cared a lot more about his music than Gilbert cared about his a burst of inspiration, he decided to completely rewrite it all starting from the eighty third measure. After all, contest entries must be perfect.

"Why'd you do that?" Gilbert said, reading over his shoulder, "I liked that part! Like it's 'dun _dun_ DUN _dun_ dun', and then there's the 'dun dun _dun_ dun _dun_ DUN _dun_ dun', and then—"

"I know what I wrote, Gilbert," Roderich said with a smidge of irritation. Their 'I know better' behaviour was one of the reasons why Roderich didn't hang out with Slytherins. Gilbert was the one exception, thanks to Elizabeta's insistence that her two best friends _try_ to get along.

In the beginning, they could hardly stand to be in the same room with each other, but Gilbert became a little less unbearable after Roderich found out he played the flute. He tended to have slightly more patience for the musically literate.

After Gilbert helped Roderich get better at his potions, and after Roderich helped _him_ pass his theory for SMEEMS (Standard Music Exams of the European Magic Society), they became a little closer. They still spoke to each other, even after Elizabeta left to go to a private muggle/wizarding immersion school in Hungary.

In fact, they _might_ be close enough to be considered best friends. _Might_.

But best friend or not, Gilbert has a knack for getting on people's nerves.

"I'm _sorry_ for offering a third party opinion. Jeez, Rod. And," Gilbert paused his obsessive tie tying to tug the sheets of paper from Roderich's hands, "now it feels kind of erratic and stuff. That thing's all 'DUN dun _dun dun_ DUN dun—'"

With a glare, Roderich took back his music and replied, " _I know what I wrote, Gilbert._ And it's contemporary. Anyway, I'm expressing my feelings, my story, so let me do what I'm doing."

"Contemporary," Gilbert said with distaste. He eyed the Ravenclaw as if he told him to eat maggots for breakfast. Contemporary music invoked the same emotions from Gilbert what the human centipede tended to invoke in most people. "And how's the audience supposed to know the story? All they can hear is the notes. Music is as much of a language as gibberish is."

"They can feel my passion, obviously. Don't you feel the passion in the notes sometimes when you play?" Roderich dotted the staccatos.

"I feel the deep intense hate for my grandfather for forcing me to continue the flute, if that's what you mean," he joked not-so-lightheartedly. Gilbert loved the flute, up until his uncle died from lung cancer two years ago.

Roderich would have said something comforting, but Gilbert spoke before he had the chance. "And I feel passionate when I play Quidditch. Which you so adamantly refuse to participate in. Princess."

"I bruise easily," Roderich defended, "and we were talking about music. Do you get what I mean, Gilbert?"

Gilbert sighed. "Yes, I hate music. I suppose that counts as passion." Roderich glanced up sharply. Well that was unexpected.

"What do you mean, you hate music? You always bother me about duets!"

"I like _your_ duets," Gilbert pouted childishly, "and you deny me the things I like!"

Roderich groaned. "Shut up. I can't believe I'm friends with a person who hates music."

"I don't hate _your_ music! And I kind of like Bach, I guess. I just, um, greatly dislike playing."

He blinked, confused. "But three years ago, when you told me you wanted to be a musician, a flutist—"

"I wasn't lying then. It's just, well, you know."

"Ah."

They were silent for a while.

"I should go," Gilbert said, his voice considerably quieter.

Uncle Fritz was the one who taught Gilbert how to read music.

Gilbert face was screwed up like he had bitten into something very sour, and that he wanted to punch something, scream, cry, or maybe all three.

Uncle Fritz taught him how to assemble the flute.

He stood up and ran off before Roderich could grab onto his robes to stop him.

Uncle Fritz taught him how to follow a metronome.

Roderich glanced at the music he was holding. He was certain, when complete, it would make a wonderful competition entry. He knew that the inspiration will vanish by the time he has time to write again.

He looked at his rapidly diminishing figure.

He hastily pocketed it and hurried after Gilbert.


End file.
